


Uncharted

by orphan_account



Category: Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cabin Fic, Episode: s04e01 Rise, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 13:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time passes slowly in her small bedroom, in this cabin, in these thick, dark woods.<br/>She's restless, on her back in the bed, staring at a ceiling she can't even see. There's nothing above her, and such emptiness surrounding her. The trees out her window block what little light exists, making it seem like there is no moon, no stars littering the clear night sky. The constellations have scattered, and everything is just gone. Like she almost was. It haunts her - how close she came to death - keeps her awake after the pills have been flushed down the toilet with her dinner. It's all so silent here, so empty, so dark. Her sepulcher in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU Rise

Three weeks ago she had struggled to walk the path to her father's cabin.   
  
Each step she had taken along that uneven, twisted path had been laborious, and it had felt like everything had been her enemy that afternoon. Sharp stones beneath her feet had jutted through the soles of her shoes, protruding tree roots had sought her out, endeavoring to catch her off-guard. Every small step had jostled her aching body. Overhanging branches had reached out to claw at her too-tight skin, the sun too bright that day for eyes used to florescent lights for _too_ long. She had wondered if she would make it, had resisted her body's need to rest, to sit down upon the nearest rock and catch her breath. But, with her father at her side, a crutch helping her with every step, she had allowed herself to be guided inside the warm cabin, and tucked into bed.   
  
Her father had stayed through the first week, helping her adjust to her recovery away from the cocoon of the four, sterile, bland hospital walls. At her insistence, he had left, at the beginning of week two, muttering, "You're too much like your old man for your own good, Katie."   
  
Refusing to admit boredom was seeping in, Kate busied herself. She read, new novels - one that had appeared on her coffee table, with no word, the day her father had left - and old familiar ones that carried her gently back to days, months, even years before the funeral. _Both of them_.   
  
The rare - fleeting - moments her body ached _less_ she would play guitar, strumming new songs and old to the singing insects fluttering around the porch in the evenings.   
  
And all the while she healed, growing a little stronger with each passing day.   
  
And all the while she missed Castle.   
  
But her phone remained off - except to phone her father each evening to assure him she was doing okay. She ignored the numbers on the _Phone_ and _Messages_ icons as they increased, not yet ready to read his words, or hear his voice. The novel on the coffee table remained closed, for fear that the dedication alone might be her undoing.   
The summer air weighed heavily down on her, the humidity almost suffocating, and yet she left the low-cut, thin tops pushed to the back of the small closet. She felt the painful pull of the scar daily, she didn't need to see it.   
  
Three weeks ago she thought the hardest parts were over.   
  


* * *

  
Night descends around her, the lamp beside her the only light in the room. She sits on the small couch, coffee table bare, the book resting on her lap, her stomach empty after another wave of nausea had refused to allow her to keep her dinner down. She forces down the last of the water in her glass, turns a crisp page of the hard-cover, preparing herself for the words she can no longer keep herself from, but her attention shifts before she can read the dedication. Straining her ears, she listens to the new sound outside, of footsteps crunching along the stony, narrow path, moving ever closer to her door. Placing her book down on the table before her, Kate hits the light, pushes herself painfully off the couch, and creeps to the small cupboard beside the door, where her father's baseball bat sits. She curls her hand around the handle, slips a finger through the blinds just enough for her to peer out, her head pounding as she strains to see the features of the person walking her way.   
  
_ Shit. _   
  
Placing the bat back in the cupboard, she edges to the side, out of view. Maybe he won't persist. Maybe he will just walk away if she doesn't answer the door. No one's home. Sorry.   
  
He knocks, and he waits.   
  
He knocks, and he calls out to her.   
  
He makes it clear he isn't leaving.   
  
He makes it known he has a key.   
  
Her father couldn't have given her a head's up?   
  
Opening the door, Kate leans against the sturdy wood, and raises her eyebrows at her visitor, refusing to mask her anger, her frustration. "I'll call _you_ , remember?"   
  
"I grew tired of waiting," he begins, his voice as heavy and bruised as the shadows beneath his eyes, smudges and lines emphasized by the harsh porch light shining down on him. "I tried to phone you, okay? But you seem to have acquired a nasty habit of leaving your phone turned off."   
  
She shakes her head wearily. "I can't do this tonight, Castle. I'm not feeling up to visitors. You should go."   
  
"It's after ten, Beckett, and it was a long drive." He shifts his weight, keeps his eyes locked on hers.   
  
"There's a Motel 6 twenty miles down the road. Or sleep in your car. I can't do this tonight."   
  
He shakes his head, refusing to budge. "It's been a month since you were discharged - and I _know_ what day you were discharged - and I haven't heard a word from you." The flowers in his hand haven't gone unnoticed. He sees her eyes dip to them, and holds them out. "I bought you these." He thrusts them a little angrily at her, can't keep his hand from shaking.   
  
She doesn't accept them, this familiar but wilted bunch. She remains leaning against the door-frame, one hand holding tight to the door handle, the other in a fist at her side. Her fingers unclench slowly; the gesture is too familiar and she can't help but be moved by it. It stirs a memory, one that almost makes her smile.   
  


* * *

  
_ She wakes, blinks through the disorientation this first morning in her private hospital room, to find herself surrounded by the bouquets that had greeted her post-op. There's one extra bunch, in a sturdy vase, a bright bouquet of smiling sunflowers, tied with a yellow ribbon. No note, no hint of who they're from, just sitting there, making her smile.  _   
_ The next morning, she cracks her eyes open to blue forget-me-nots in a smaller vase beside the sunflowers - that still smile back at her. The blue ribbon around the bouquet suggests they are from the same person.  _   
_ The trend continues. Each day she wakes to a different color of flowers beside her, tied with a ribbon. The only answer her questioning ever gets from the nurse on duty is: "That nice young man."  _   
_ Three days before she is due to be released a rustling beside her bed rouses her from sleep. She doesn't open her eyes, just waits. She waits until the rustling stops, and footsteps walk away from her bed. It's then that she carefully opens her eyes, to Castle's retreating form.  _   
_ She really should have known he wouldn't do as he was told and stay away. _   
  


* * *

  
The bright, multicolored bouquet is still in front of her face, his extended hand still wavering slightly. His expression softens with her own. "The flowers and colors all apparently mean something but," he shrugs, as though he's put no thought into it whatsoever when she knows it to be the opposite, "I just thought they looked nice."   
  
With a resigned sigh, she accepts the bouquet. "Thank you." Stepping back, she opens the door for him, because she can't force him back onto the road, nor can she bear the thought of him sleeping in his car. "Only because it's late, Castle."   
  
He nods, frowning as he enters. "You don't have electricity out here?"   
  
She closes the door behind him, turns her back to it, and flicks the light switch beside her, the flowers clasped in her other hand. She holds the bouquet upright, fighting her wrist's need to go limp and let the flowers hang. "I heard someone approaching _unannounced_ ," she says, her voice low, angry."And in case you've forgotten I'm not exactly in the right shape for hand-to-hand combat right now."   
  
"Okay, look, I'm sorry," he tells her once he has turned to face her. "But if you check your messages I did try to warn you I was coming."   
  
Pushing away from the door, she heads into the kitchen. "No vase this time, Castle?"   
  
"You knew?" Surprise in his tone.   
  
She hums in response, a sound barely audible over the noise of the water filling the vase, but as she glances up quickly to meet his eyes she knows he heard. "I can't offer you much. A couch to sleep on, that's it."   
  
"That's fine," he promises.   
  
"Have you eaten?"   
  
He shakes his head. "I'm fine though."   
  
"There's leftover lasagna in the fridge, if you're hungry."   
  
He's looking her up and down, taking in her appearance, and his look alone sends an uncomfortable air down upon her, surrounding her, filling the space between them. The flowers securely in the vase, Kate runs a hand through her hair, and then tugs at the top of her shirt to pull it up a little higher.   
  
He senses her unease, turns away. "I'm fine," he promises. But then he's looking at her again like he's not convinced the left-overs are from this particular evening. "Have you eaten?" He asks.   
  
She throws him a withering glare, a silent warning to drop it. "I ate earlier."   
  
"Okay," he replies slowly, as though he doesn't believe her. He sits down on the couch, picks up the book from her coffee table, and smiles. "You got the advance copy I see."   
  
"Dad dropped it off," she confirms. "Thank you." Her tone is still a little clipped; she's clinging to the residual anger, determined to stay mad.   
  
He takes note of where her bookmark is - stuck haphazardly in at the dedication - but says nothing more.   
  
"Listen, Castle, I really am tired."   
  
"I came to talk," he admits carefully, his own anger and hurt still lacing his tone. "But I accept it can wait until morning."   
  
She's been lingering in the small kitchen, on the verge of turning on her heel and heading off to the cabin's lone, small bedroom. But then the unease swirls in her stomach, the bile rises, and she can't hold down what little of her dinner still remains in her stomach. With a pained gait, she moves as quickly as she's capable of, into the bathroom, a hand at her chest as she anticipates the pain about to surge through her body. She is kneeling over the toilet, eyes watering as she coughs and heaves, when her hair is scraped back out of the way by a gentle, but masculine touch, and another hand settles on her back. She hates that she is unable to hold it all down long enough to yell at him to leave. She hates that he's seeing her like this.   
  
Pulling the lid down, she reaches up to flush the toilet, but remains kneeling on the floor, catching her breath. "Castle, please leave," she forces out. _The room, the cabin, just go._ Her chest aches, her stomach muscles are cramping, and her throat _burns -_ and she doesn't think she's ever felt so humiliated in her life.   
  
He still has her hair held gently out of the way, rubbing small circles on her back with his other hand. "How often does this happen?" He asks softly.   
  
She wrestles for a moment with how much to tell him. "It's the medication," she replies finally, waiting for her stomach to settle before she stands. It's the painkillers her body struggles with. She spends evenings fighting a losing battle with her stomach, to keep the pills down long enough for them to be absorbed into her system. Some evenings the nausea lingers, and her dinner is sacrificed for a pain-free, drug-induced sleep. She watches out of the corner of her eye as he reaches a hand up to the counter. She feels his warm, caring hands ease through her hair. His fingertips graze her scalp, and it calms her, relaxes her. She suppresses the sigh, trying to remain angry at him for turning up here tonight. He separates her hair into three sections, and she yields to his presence a little. Kate rests her arm on the closed lid, her chin on her arm, and huffs. "Are you braiding my hair, Castle?"   
  
"Mmhmm," he replies softly, working the sections over and under, slipping an elastic around the end. "So when were you planning to call me?"   
  
Kate raises her head, and pushes herself to her feet with a groan. "Tomorrow," she pleads. "Castle-"   
  
He stands, and raises his hands in surrender.   
  
"I'm just gonna clean up..." She gestures at the door with a wave of her hand.   
  
Castle stares blankly for a moment, before, "Oh! Right. I'm on the other side if you need me." And he leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.   
  
Kate stands, and slumps against the sink, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. She runs the water, splashing it over her face, and gives her teeth a quick brush. She catches her reflection, and wishes she hadn't. She's too pale, too thin; she hates feeling like this, hates that he's seeing her like this.   
  
She exits the bathroom, feeling that lingering tug of embarrassment that she can't quite shake, to find him making himself comfortable on the couch. Kate slips into the bedroom to collect a blanket and pillow for him, the weight of these items almost too much for her exhausted muscles to support, and returns as he's flipping through his book.  
  
"It never gets old, seeing my words in print like this," he admits when she places the blanket at the end of the couch, the pillow on top. He doesn't look at her, doesn't mention the incident in the bathroom again, just gazes down at his own novel and runs a hand over the shiny dust cover.   
  
"Why did you come?" Kate asks, standing before him, but refusing to take a seat.   
  
He places the book back on the coffee table, and raises his eyes to meet hers. "You were never going to phone me, were you."   
  
Her silence says it all. She expects him to fire an angry, hurt comment at her, but he breathes out a sigh instead, and shakes his head in what almost looks like defeat.   
  
"I miss you."   
  
Her healing heart twists in her chest, his calming tone, his honest words, breaking down her once solid defenses. She misses him too, but she can't talk about it. Why she lied, why she broke contact, why she came to the cabin. She can't. Not tonight.   
"I'll see you in the morning, Castle," she says in response to his admission.   
  
He opens his mouth to speak, about things she isn't even ready to discuss, but closes it when he sees the warning flare in her eyes. She feels his eyes on her as she retreats into the bedroom and closes the door. She still feels his eyes boring through the wood, like he's trying to convince himself she's okay.   
  
And she is okay.   
  
Her hand travels to the back of her head, and she follows the path of the braid with the tips of two fingers, flipping it over her shoulder to rest upon her breast. The phantom touch of his hands scraping across her scalp, easing through her hair, tying it back, sends a warm rush of love through her body. She catches her reflection in the small mirror on the wall beside the door, and the warmth turns cold, shudders through her, makes her shiver.   
  
_ She's not okay _ .   
  


* * *

  
Time passes slowly in her small bedroom, in this cabin, in these thick, dark woods.   
She's restless, on her back in the bed, staring at a ceiling she can't even see. There's nothing above her, and such emptiness surrounding her. The trees out her window block what little light exists, making it seem like there is no moon, no stars littering the clear night sky. The constellations have scattered, and everything is just _gone_. Like she almost was. It haunts her - how close she came to death - keeps her awake after the pills have been flushed down the toilet with her dinner. It's all so silent here, so empty, so dark. Her sepulcher in the woods.   
  
The insects out her window call to her, attract her attention, and attempt to lull her to sleep with comforting chirps - but it's no use.   
She's hungry, and thirsty, and her body aches, but Castle's in the next room, sleeping on the couch, and what if that's all she needs. Not food, not water, not painkillers she will struggle to keep down. What if all she really needs is his company, and she relents, sits next to him. What if she opens up?   
  
By the time she gives in, accepts that she needs _something_ in her stomach no matter what other complications arise once she exits this bedroom, it's late, well past midnight. She doesn't keep a close eye on time in the cabin, she simply keeps track of the days. Only in the early evenings, as the sun begins to descend, does she turn on her phone to speak with her dad and takes notice of the time - and the missed calls and messages piling up. But it's late now, she can feel it, and, if she sneaks out for a glass of water, by now he must be sleeping.   
  
Easing wearily out from under the thin sheet and off the bed, she adjusts her sleeping top, just in case, and slips out of the bedroom. The living room is dark, and the soft snoring from the couch assures her he is asleep. She tiptoes into the kitchen, carefully takes a glass from the shelf, and slowly fills it, but the plumbing is old, and the faucet is noisy. She holds a breath while it fills, listens for an indication he has woken up, a shift in his breathing, the rustle of movement, but hears no change in him. She takes her full glass and pads softly past the couch, but she hesitates as she passes by, and glances down at his sleeping form. His hair is ruffled, and she can't stop herself reaching out to smooth it down, her fingers lingering on his cheek as she slides her fingers down his face.   
  
Watching over him for a moment longer, Kate slips her fingers from his skin. "You really piss me off sometimes," she murmurs softly, her words harsh but her tone soft, before making her way back to the bedroom. She glances back to his still form, and a vice clenches tight around her heart. "I wish you'd kept those words to yourself just a little longer." She enters her bedroom, closes the door, and hates herself just a little more.   
  


* * *

  
In the unfamiliar cabin, on the small, awkward couch, Castle opens his eyes. He blinks in the darkness, sits up, and focuses on her closed bedroom door, her voice still swirling around him.   
Words? Which ones?   
He says so much to her that she shouldn't, he can't be expected to be aware of which ones finally crossed a line.   
He blinks. Freezes. _No_. It can't be _those_ words, because she doesn't remember those words...   
She doesn't remember the shooting...


	2. Chapter 2

Time moves a little slower on Sundays. The Earth's revolutions decrease in speed, and the people, the animals, every living thing, they all slow with it. This is how Sundays have always felt in the Castle loft. Alexis can never resist the lull of a Sunday, the worries of the approaching school week always eased by her father's 'lazy Sunday' attitude. Even Martha rouses just a little later, in no hurry to face the final day of the weekend. But, out here, he feels the lag, the grip of this sluggish pace of life, tugging even more persistently at him. It's pulling him back, slowing him down, subduing his anger and fears. The warm breeze stirs the leaves on the trees around him, sending out a susurrus of calming, nonsense words. No one is in a hurry, no car horns blast in his ears, no radio, no television - no deadlines. He hasn't seen signs of anyone else out here since he arrived. Just her. Only her. He may not have approved of her lack of contact, he may still be hurting more than he's letting on, but he approves of this cabin, the serenity that wraps a comforting blanket around them out here and helps her to heal.   
  
He rests his arms on the wooden railings of the porch, two coffee cups and a moka pot balanced precariously beside him, and leans forward slightly, the weight of the heavy humid air pressing down on him, the weight of everything that happened that day in the cemetery almost knocking him flat.   
  
A dragonfly buzzes lazily past him, heavy and sated, drugged on the summer air, its segmented abdomen brushing against the wooden railings as it passes by next to Castle. It too seems in no hurry, nearing the end of its short adult life, weaving a path up and under branches and leaves as it heads for the lake waters Castle can hear lapping against the shore nearby. He's following the insect, in his head, through overgrown thickets, over protruding tree roots, his thick soles crunching upon the scattering of leaves beneath his feet, all the way to the large, clear lake. The dragonflies and damselflies hover above the still, glass-like surface, performing a dance in the air, this lake where they were born, where they will eventually die.   
  
"You're still here?"   
  
Her voice brings him back to the porch, the lake waters evaporate before his eyes, and he turns. "I made you coffee." Ignoring her words, he pours the hot liquid into a cup and holds it out to her. "Your dad has a moka pot, how cool is _that_?" She's dressed, in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that's hanging slightly off one shoulder, but her hair remains pulled back in the same messy braid he worked it into the previous night. He focuses on her hands as she tucks stray strands of hair behind her ears, and fights to keep his eyes from trailing down to the long, toned, tanned legs that go on and on and on.   
  
"I'm not drinking coffee right now." Kate glances at the cup of coffee in his hand, and her nose wrinkles a little.   
  
"You're missing out. It's like a whole new coffee experience-" He stops himself when he sees her face, the lines of frustration creasing her forehead. "Juice instead perhaps?"   
  
Kate smiles slightly, her eyes warming, the lines smoothing, as she watches him. "I'll get something soon. Why are you still here?"   
  
"I plan to hit the road later this afternoon," he admits carefully. He's just not ready yet, not ready to leave and return to the radio silence that's frustrated, worried, and angered him this past month. He turns his back to her, and stares out at the trees beyond the border of the small property. "There's a lake nearby, right?"   
  
Kate joins him at the railings, keeping a space between them as her fingers curl around the wooden planks. Any words she may have been preparing to speak, to send him on his way, dissolve, and she allows the change in subject. "Just off to the left, not too far. You can hear it if you listen carefully."   
  
He can. He's been listening to it all morning, the soft sounds of water lapping against the shore, not unlike the ebb and flow of the tide. He closes his eyes and the tingle of relief pulses through him and pushes lingering concerns aside. He can't stay angry on a Sunday.   
  
"Never knew you could stay quiet so long, Castle," she murmurs.   
  
He turns, and catches the hint of a smile on her profile, but she keeps her eyes trained out into the forest beyond the cabin. "It sounds like the ocean." He keeps his voice low, keeps his tone, his anger, and his love for her, subdued.   
  
"The lake has a seiche, it has its own tide," she explains, eyes still trained straight ahead. "It's like it breathes, like it's a living thing. As a kid there were always stories about a monster resting at the bottom of the lake, and how the seiche was caused by its heartbeat."   
  
He smiles at her words, nodding along. "That's a good story, a little bit creepy. I like that."   
  
"I thought you would." She nudges him gently with her elbow, meets his eyes, and then nods back towards the house. "Come on, Castle. I'll make you breakfast and then we can check out the lake."   
  
"Really?" He asks, a wave of hope surging through him.   
  
"Why not," she shrugs. She pushes off the railing, and heads back inside, tossing over her shoulder, "Maybe you'll even see the monster."   
  
He collects the two coffee mugs and the moka pot in his hands, balancing them as he follows her inside. She's already moving around the kitchen, collecting eggs, a bowl, the orange juice and a couple of glasses. She holds up an egg as he places the coffee on the counter. "Scrambled okay?"   
  
"Yeah, scrambled is perfect."   
  
He can't help but watch her as she moves around the small kitchen, which is little more than a thin space sandwiched between a sink before her, and a back wall with a stove top behind. A small microwave oven sits to the side, the U-shaped counter top leaving little room for food prep. He notices the things she tries to hide from him: the blink of pain when she scrambles the eggs, the slight pause as she reaches up for a plate. He remains quiet, but stores it all away - and next time he'll make breakfast. _Next time_.   
  
"Stop staring," she says on a sigh. "It's creepier than the lake monster."   
  
He mumbles a sorry, and glances away. But the moment he's sure she has returned her own attention back to the eggs he turns back to her, and watches again. He would offer to help, but he knows better.   
  
She glances back at him, and rolls her eyes. "Pour the juice, Castle," she commands. And at those words he's at her side, pleased to be given a job, helping without having to ask.   
  


* * *

  
They eat in a comfortable silence; she does her best to suppress the annoyance she still feels, and he does his best to keep out of her way and not push her. He's unusually quiet, too thoughtful, and it unnerves her. When the light meal settles in her stomach, and she feels confident last night's unease won't be making an unpleasant return, she stands and begins to clean up. He's at her side quickly, taking the dishes from her once she has washed them. He dries them and puts them away, reaching up so she doesn't have to.   
  
She dries her hands, tucks some loose strands back into her braid, and smiles at him. "Come on," she tells him, holding out a hand. "I'll show you the lake." He reaches for her hand, a hopeful smile on his lips, but she curls her fingers back, and chuckles lightly. "In your dreams, Castle."   
  
"What?" He asks, too innocently. "You thought I was going to hold your hand? Ha, Beckett, I don't think so. Too scared you might barf on me." He raises his eyebrows at her wide eyes. "Oh, what? Too soon?"   
  
And she smiles at that, at his teasing, his shining eyes and bright smile, because she can't help it. She ushers him out the door, and falls into step beside him, just enough space for the two of them on the narrow path to the lake.   
  
He's watching her while they walk, he simply cannot stop himself and she knows it. He has noticed that she favors one side, limps a little, she can tell by the way he inclines his head, eyes her side with concern. He wouldn't even be aware of this slight limp if he didn't know her usual rhythm, but he knows. She steps slowly, carefully, and he matches her pace, pretending to be slowed down by all the fascinating fauna and flora around him. Common birds, and leaves all the same shade of green? _Oh, so fascinating, Castle_.   
  
The trees open up, and the lake stretches out before them, carving a glacial path through the valley, the surface glittering silver from the morning sun.   
  
"It's shaped like a bolt of lightning," she tells him gently while they both stand at the edge of the trees, quietly taking in the expanse of water before them. She smiles softly, and tilts her head. "Come, sit for a bit."   
  
She beckons him over to a wide plank of weathered wood tied between two trees with thick rope, and he sits carefully at one end.  
  
She doesn't know where to start, or how this unavoidable conversation ends. She sits at the opposite end, her fingers trailing over thick moss on the tree trunk, seeking guidance in the spongy green growth beneath her fingers. But it can't even tell her which way is north, which is south, let alone how to apologize for more than a month's silence. Moss grows wherever the sun shines most, and it circles this particular tree, threatening to suffocate it. This moss like her lie, all that she keeps from him, growing with each passing day, threatening to suffocate her.   
  
"I know you're angry," she begins, working her way towards the apology he deserves.   
  
"Damn right I'm angry." His voice is calm, controlled, belying his words. "You don't turn your phone on for _weeks_. I leave you messages, and each one goes unanswered."   
  
Her arm snakes around the rope, and she clasps her hands together in her lap. "I told you I needed some time."   
  
He doesn't look at her, doesn't tear his gaze away from the calming ebb and flow of the lake waters against the shore. "You said a few days."   
  
"Well I needed more."   
  
"You should have said that."   
  
She turns to him, her eyes boring into his profile, willing him to meet her eyes. "Castle, look I couldn't call you without dragging myself into everything I was trying to get some space from. I needed some time to just work through everything." He turns, and the fire she sees blazing in his eyes almost makes her look down, but she holds his fierce gaze.   
  
"Josh help you with that?"   
  
She unclasps her hands, and curls her fingers around the rope that holds the swing-seat up. One arm crosses over her chest, until both hands cling to the frayed, aged, twisted twine. She drops her gaze down to the soft dirt, scuffing it up with the soles of her trainers. "We broke up."   
  
He's quiet then, absorbing that information. "I'm sorry."   
  
She lifts her head, and focuses her eyes on the blue expanse of the lake. She leans away from him, against the rope, fighting exhaustion.   
  


* * *

  
She rests a cheek against her hands and avoids his eyes, and he swallows down his lingering hurt as a pained sigh escapes her lips.   
  
"Have you read the dedication?" He asks, his hands resting on his lap, fingers linked.   
  
"Not yet," she admits, lifting her head from against her hand to meet his eyes. "I sat down last night to start, but someone turned up on my doorstep." She fixes him with a pointed look, but there's the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and he feels his tension draining away.   
  
"How inconsiderate," he says dryly.   
  
She hums in response, and silence falls between them. He watches the insects as they perform their dance above the surface of the water, heavy, clumsy dragonflies trying to impress the females. There's nothing graceful or lithesome about it, it all just seems a little desperate to him. They're all just trying a little too hard to attract the attention of the damselflies that find them irritating. He wonders if that's how he appeared recently, trying too hard to divert her attention from others. Demming. Josh. Royce. Josh. Conrad. _Josh_.   
  
"I really, really liked Josh," she admits slowly. "But that wasn't enough."   
  
He fights to keep the humorless smile from his lips, in case she misreads it for joy. "I didn't ask why you broke up."   
  
"Yeah, you weren't asking very loudly." A soft chuckle escapes her lips, and for the first time since he turned up on her doorstep last night - for the first time in over a month - it begins to feel _right_ again.   
  
"You heard that eh?" He grins at her, and she shakes her head at him.   
  
"How are things at the precinct?" She asks softly.   
  
"You'd know if you turned on your phone every once in a while," he replies, the mood shifting so quick between them he's beginning to feel like he's on the lake, being bounced around by the beat of the monster's heart.   
  
"I needed time," she reminds him gently. "I still do."   
  
"How much?"   
  


* * *

  
She sighs at that. "I don't know. I need my body to stop aching, I need to be able to move without feeling the tight pull of the scars." She closes her eyes, and lowers her chin, her eyes focusing on the dirt beneath them. _Too much. She has admitted too much._   
  
He's silent, using the balls of his feet to swing the seat a little. It moves his side of the seat, dragging hers with it. She touches her toes to the ground, and kicks back, propelling them forward in sync. It's a gentle sway, but it feels good to be in tune with one another again.   
  
"We haven't stopped," Castle says, eyes straight ahead, not looking at her.   
  
"Haven't stopped what?"   
  
"Your shooting, Montgomery, your mom..." He takes a breath but still refuses to meet her eyes. "We're investigating behind the back of the new captain-"   
  
"New captain," she breathes out. She hadn't given that much thought, but of course - _of course_ \- someone had been assigned to the Twelfth.   
  
"Captain Victoria Gates," he supplies. "Iron Gates. Pretty sure she's about to kick me to the curb." He heaves a despondent sigh. "Pretty sure she won't let me back in the door when I return."   
  
"Oh, Castle." She releases her hold on the rope, and drops her hand down on his knee, squeezing gently.   
  
He turns to her, his eyes boring into her. "I won't stop," he promises, clenching his jaw. "I'll never stop. I can't. We'll find the bastard, Kate."   
  
She hushes him with a calming sshhh. "Don't worry about that, Castle. Please," she pleads. "I'll heal, and we'll take the bastard down _together_ , okay?"   
  
He shakes his head. "No. You can't. God, Kate. I watched you die in that ambulance. I can't- Not again. You know what that's like? Watching the life drain out of someone you- someone you care about?" Anger, fear, hurt, it all rushes back in his voice. He looks at her, tilts his head. "Do you remember anything? From that day?"   
  
She sucks in a breath, wrestles with how much to say. "I remember... flashes." She closes her eyes, and the smell of gunpowder assaults her nostrils, the burn of the bullet tearing through her flesh scorches her, and she tenses. "The pain, the fear, it hits me sometimes."   
  
"Sounds?" He asks, his voice hesitant.   
  
"I... It's all a blur, a mess of confusion and pain. I don't- Not really sounds, no."   
  
"Okay," he replies.   
  
She can tell by his tone he isn't convinced, but he doesn't push further. "When you remember, let me know," he says softly.   
  
She nods.   
  
"So the lake has a monster?"   
  
She smiles then. "So they say, but you know I don't believe that kind of thing."   
  
"Of course not."   
  
She slips her hand from his thigh, reaches into her pocket, and pulls her phone out. She quietly places it on the wooden seat, in the space still between them, and holds the power button. It takes a moment, but the phone flashes on. They're both silent, watching as the icons flash up, and the numbers of messages and missed calls increase.   
  
"How many of those are yours?" She asks.   
  
"The majority I imagine." He shrugs. "I just needed to know you were okay."   
  
"I'm not," she admits. "But I'm getting there."   
  
"There might be a few voice messages on there that you should just delete."   
  
"I really am sorry, Castle." She turns and gives him a small smile. "I am glad you're here now though."   
  
"Does that mean I can stay a little longer? This place is amazing, Beckett," he tells her, enthusiasm leaking into his voice. "This lake, the cabin, I see why you love it here."   
  
"I need to heal alone for a little longer. You understand that, right?"   
  
He's silent for a moment, considering her words. "I'm not happy about it, but I accept it."   
  
"And, now that my phone is on, you won't come back without my permission first?"   
  
"Only if you promise to reply to messages so that I know you're doing okay."   
  
"I'll do my best."   
  
He frowns at her. "Promise, or I'm not leaving."   
  
"Fine. I promise."   
  
"Good." He gazes out over the water, the swing swaying gently.   
  
"I really am doing better, you know that right?"   
  
"Well in spite of the fact you threw up your dinner in front of me last night, you look really good. Considering."   
  
"Considering I died twice," she replies, a mirthless chuckle escaping her lips.   
  
He pales noticeably, and turns to her, eyes wide. "What do you mean _twice_?"   
  
"In the back of the ambulance, and while in surgery, or so I've been told."   
  
She watches his throat ripple as he swallows, sees the muscles in his jaw clench. "How can you stay so calm about that?" He asks finally.   
  
"I don't remember it, and I'm still here."   
  
He shakes his head, tears misting at his eyes. "I can't have this conversation right now."   
  
"Now you understand," she says softly, picking up her phone and placing it back in the pocket of her shorts. "Don't push me to talk about things I'm not ready or able to talk about yet, okay?" She presses her feet into the soft dirt to halt the motion of the swing, and once it has stopped she moves carefully off it, wary of tugging at the scar tissue that's still healing. "I'm tired," she tells him gently. "I'm heading back." She shakes her head as he moves to stand. "Stay here a bit. Enjoy the view." _Fully absorb everything we just spoke about._   
  
She turns from him, and it's only then that she allows her face to crumble. With her back to him, she can allow the pain to show through on her face. Her eyes close briefly, and she steadies herself with a deep, but quiet, breath. Her lips, drawn tight, turn down, and she can feel new lines forming in her face. She will begin PT when she arrives back in the city, and she will be cleared for duty. But, for now, she just needs to be able to walk the path back to the cabin without this persistent exhaustion getting the better of her, without the tug of her scars wearing her down. She clenches her jaw, her muscles protesting, her teeth aching, and continues to put one foot in front of the other, putting distance between herself and the man on the old wooden swing.   
  


* * *

  
Alone, in the comforting cabin atmosphere, she curls up on the couch, drops her phone down beside her on the cushion, brings the book to her lap, and reads the dedication:   
_ To Captain Roy Montgomery, NYPD. _   
_ He made a stand and taught me all I need to know _   
_ about bravery and character.  _   
  
Tears form, pricking at the corners of her eyes, threatening to fall and stain the crisp paper between her fingers. Picking up her phone, she types a quick message into it, and hits send.   
_ I like the dedication _ .   
  
Her phone buzzes a few seconds later, and she reads the screen with a smile. _Seemed right_.   
  
She loses track of time and allows herself to be absorbed into the story unfolding with each turn of the page. "Strip Proust, Castle?" She murmurs aloud as she reads page 97. "In your dreams." She shrugs at the mention of Odysseus, having always had a soft spot for Penelope - brave, smart, faithful - but smiles in acceptance at 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'. She snorts softly at Rook's 'One Fish, Two Fish', but then her eyes drop to the next question on the page: 'How do you want to die?' and the smile fades, her eyes darken, and she closes the book slowly, her bookmark in page 98, unwilling to finish reading the previous page any time soon.   
  
Her phone buzzes beside her, she retrieves it, and Castle's there for her, lifting her mood back up without any knowledge he had just, unintentionally, dragged her down. _I think I just swallowed a dragonfly_. She smiles. Another buzz. _Maybe it was a damselfly_. The joy from his words reaches her eyes. Another buzz. _Do you think they're poisonous?_   
  
She laughs and types a reply back. _I think you'd choke on a dragonfly. Sure it wasn't just a gnat_? She finds her eyes glued to the screen, anticipating his reply, and oh how she has missed this.   
  
_ It crunched. _   
  
Kate scrunches up her face, and types back, _I guess you're not hungry since you've just eaten, but I'm about to start preparing lunch._ She doesn't care what the time is, she's hungry again, and as long as the food stays in her stomach she won't deny her body what it needs.   
  
Phone back in her pocket, Kate is stepping into the kitchen just as the door swings open and Castle saunters in.   
  
"That was quick."   
  
"I was already bored of the lake and on my way back when the swarm attacked me. Had I anticipated the assault I would've kept my mouth closed."   
  
"Why was your mouth even open?"   
  
"I was breathing."   
  
"Okay," she replies slowly. "Maybe use your nose next time."

  
"And snort one of those monster insects up? No thank you."   
  
She laughs then. She can't help it. "Okay, fine," she admits, once she has sobered. "Maybe I missed you a little bit too."   
  
His eyes grow softer, and a smile tugs at his lips. "Does that mean I can stay?"   
  
"Nope," she replies. "I'll feed you lunch, but then you're on your way again."   
  
His eyes change before her. She doesn't know which word she just uttered triggered it, if any. But the softness disappears, and darkness clouds them. She steps out from behind the counter, concerned by his expression. She's about to open her mouth to ask if he's okay when she's gathered up awkwardly into his arms, and pulled gently against his chest. She died twice. She was unreachable for a month. _Oh, Castle_. Still a little hesitant, she slips her arms around his waist, and buries her head into his shoulder. His fingers are tangled in her messy braid, his other hand flat against her back, and he's just breathing her in like she's air. "I'm okay," she promises, her voice low. "I'm tougher than I look." His body vibrates against hers, and she wonders - for a second - if he's crying? But then she hears the low rumble of laughter, and she smiles against him.   
  
He pulls back, slight embarrassment on his face. "Sorry," he tells her. "I know we don't do that kind of thing, I just - You're _alive_ ," he finishes on a sigh of exhaled breath.   
  
"I don't usually vomit in front of you either. I guess things are changing."   
  
He has a strange expression on his face as he replies, "Yes, I guess they are."   
  
She gives him a nudge. "Help me make food," she orders him. "The sooner we eat the sooner I get you out of here."   
  
He chuckles, and joins her in the small kitchen. They work together, preparing food, performing the well-practiced dance they know so well.   
They take their meals to the couch, and eat in a companionable silence. She breaks it only to nudge him away when he inches just a little too close, and she reminds him to bring his toothbrush and a change of clothes next time. _Next time._   
He laments that he didn't see the lake monster, and the _'oh well, maybe next time'_ that escapes her lips leaves no doubt in either of their minds that he will be back.   
  
They tidy up, and she walks him to the door. She sees his hesitation, feels his need to reach out and pull her into his arms once more. She sees his fear, knows he is holding back. She wishes he would reach out, pull her body to his, and just hold her. She misses his arms already. He leans in, and her heart flutters in her chest when she thinks - for just a second - that he's leaning in to kiss her. Just the brush of his lips against her cheek might send her resolve crumbling down around her, leaving no more than a dusty pile of rubble between them. She's not ready, he can't- But then his hands are resting on her forearms, and he's whispering ' _Thank you_ ' into her ear, and she lets out the breath she had been holding. He lingers, his warm, solid body so close to hers, and she pulls back, shaking her head at him.   
  
"You and your bug breath need to go back to the city _now_ ," she tells him, gently shoving him out onto the porch. With a grin on her face she says nothing more, and closes the door soundly between them - and listens.   
She hears the soft chuckle, the spoken ' _Until next time, Kate_ ', and she stays there, listening, until the sounds of his footfalls upon the stony path are lost to the sounds of the forest between them.   
  
The warm, languid, tranquil embrace of Sunday drops her down on the couch; she curls up with _Heat Rises_ once more, content to be wrapped up in his words until the cooling evening air lures her out onto the porch where she'll be serenaded by her usual, winged, evening company. But her brain refuses to read the words as they are, teasing her by changing the names before her very eyes, and all she can read about are Kate and Rick's adventures.   
"Never, never canst thou kiss," she murmurs into the empty cabin. She closes her eyes, forces all thoughts of him out of her head. But it's no use. All she can feel are his arms around her, all she can smell is his scent lingering on the couch he spent the night on - and all she wants is him.


	3. Chapter 3

Montrose. Rook.   
  
Montgomery. Her own damaged self.   
  
Kate closes the book, and runs a hand over the glossy dust jacket, taking a moment to breathe before finishing the final two pages. She breathes deeply while studying the cover, tracing the words, the images, with her index finger, until her vision blurs slightly. She blinks back the tears, regains control. Knowing now how he must have finished writing _Heat Rises_ in the days following Montgomery's death she wonders if this is his original ending, or if he altered it after...   
  
_ After. _   
  
With determination flaring up within her, she opens the book, allows her gaze to fall back down to the black type on the crisp, white pages. She wonders, idly, as she pushes through the final page, if he sat like Nikki, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the hours following the surgery. Did he read to her, lace his fingers through hers, silently watch over her? Or was Josh the one at her bedside, keeping an eye on her vitals, keeping everyone else out?   
She knows Castle brought her flowers daily, but what _doesn't_ she know?   
  
She checks the time, her rumbling stomach reminding her it's been awhile since she last ate. Her meds sit on the coffee table, taunting her, and the evening ritual begins again. She sighs, shifts her gaze away from them, and picks up her phone. _Must have been hard writing that ending,_ she types. She hits send, and sits back.   
  
His reply is instant. He knows what she is referring to. _Yeah. Given the circumstances._   
  
She reads the words, nods to herself. _It was difficult to read._   
  
_ I apologize if it was too much, too soon. _   
  
_ There's no need. It's a good book.  _ She hesitates, before typing again. _Thank you for being here today._   
  
_ Thank you for letting me in last night. _   
  
She stares at his words, unsure exactly how she should interpret them. Replies enter her mind, one after another after another. Her fingers itch to type 'Always'. But she resists. _Goodnight, Castle._   
  
_ Goodnight, Detective.  _ And just like that he gives her the emotional distance he is too used to giving her.   
  
She crawls into bed, her phone on the nightstand beside her. At 3am she wakes, feeling like she hasn't slept at all. Her brain kicks in, refuses to shut down again, so she sits up, and opens a browser on her phone. She Googles sunflowers, and the same results appear. Page after page of the same three words: Devotion, loyalty, happiness.   
  
She finally falls back asleep with those three words swirling around inside her head.   
  


* * *

  
Kate checks her voice mail on Tuesday, putting it on speaker while she listens to the messages that had piled up over the past month. Castle calling to see how she's doing; Castle calling to check in; Castle calling to see if she needs anything; Castle calling to let her know he finished the book and has passed a copy along to her father; Castle calling to suggest she hold off on reading the book; Castle calling to apologize for some of the events in the book; Castle calling to see if she's mad at him; Castle calling because it's been almost a month and he misses her and just needs to hear her voice to know she's okay because he hasn't been sleeping so well, this silence is beginning to haunt him, and if he did something wrong could she just let him know and _oh screw it, Kate, I'm coming out there._   
Her hand shakes from the fear in his voice, the way his breath hitches as he rambles and gets worked up. This is it, the message she was supposed to just delete--   
  
The explosive blast of gunfire echoes through the trees, rattling the windows and her damaged nerves; her phone clatters to the floor, and she crumples to the ground in a heap, sobbing as she drops to her knees, clutching at her thighs. Tears stain her cheeks and she struggles to fill her lungs, to draw a deep breath. She feels restricted, her heart beating too erratically, her throat constricting. Closer, louder, two more shots are fired, seemingly exploding all around her. To the right, behind her, surrounding her. Crouching down behind the couch, Kate holds a breath, not daring to move, barely breathing. The noises reverberate in her head, and she's back there, on the grass, bleeding out, a hole in her heart. She clutches at her chest, her breath coming in short, pained gasps, eyes wide as a deer's as she shields herself from the threat. But she doesn't know where they are, or how many there are. She can't see them, all she can see are gravestones, all she can smell is the wet grass, the sodden dirt, the gunpowder. She tastes it, metallic, warm, thick, the blood is bubbling up, choking her. She can feel the burn, the pain as the bullet tears through her flesh, and she is frozen in place by the fear, by the knowledge that she is dying. And she hears his voice, always hears his voice, begging her to hold on, to stay with him, telling her that he loves her. The sound of the rifle rings out again, too close now, they're almost upon her. She can't... she can't hear his voice now, he needs to be quiet, to stay still, or they'll find her, find them. _Just shhhhh, Castle... stay down. Don't-_   
  
It takes time to come back to her body and become aware of her surroundings. She remains on the floor, sheltered by the couch, her scars feeling fresh, her pain too raw, until night swallows the light from around her and she is slumped in the dark. Bile rises, burns her esophagus as it travels up, her stomach threatening to betray her once again. Inhale, exhale, she forces her lungs to cooperate, scrubs her hands over her eyes, her vision blurring momentarily before everything comes back into focus and she can breathe again. It's only then that she wonders, still fighting to control her panic, where the afternoon went.   
  
Sounds filter in, the chirping of insects, the light flutter of moths as their wings brush the window, the sounds of the nocturnal animals settling in the trees. So dark are her surroundings she doesn't even have the shadows to keep her company, no lights from cars, illuminating her walls, waving a greeting as they move past her. She's alone, she's a mess; how - when - did she lose control?   
Slumped in the dark, hiding from life beyond the cabin walls, shielding herself from whatever lurks in the woods, the couch a barrier between herself and the windows, she feels around for the phone that slipped beneath the couch. She accepts it now, she does. Even if it feels like she's still convincing herself, she accepts it: she shouldn't be doing this alone.   
  
A fine covering of dust settles on the illuminated screen of her phone, her fingertips coated in a thin layer of grit from her blind search beneath the couch, that desperate act of feeling around for the phone she knows is there _somewhere_. Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Kate stares at his name on the list. Her finger hovers above it, poised to hit the call button.   
Pushing out a defeated breath, she returns to her voice messages once more, brings the phone to her ear, and _almost_ smiles when his recorded voice once again asks how she is. She just needs to hear his voice, to listen to his words. She's not ready to talk just yet.   
  


* * *

  
He sends her messages daily, checking in. She replies with robotic lies. _I'm fine. I'm okay._   
  
He doesn't push, and limits messages, but with each passing day she feels more open, more ready to share. But he doesn't ask the questions she needs him to, and she doesn't volunteer information.   
  


* * *

  
Every evening, before succumbing to sleep, she does a quick search, deciphers another bouquet he had left for her.   
She hadn't looked up the forget-me-nots, quite sure of their meaning.   
The mix of geranium and gardenia tugged at her heart as she read up on them. Joy and comfort. His flowers had brought her both.   
The tulip bouquet of forgiveness and love. The peonies of healing. The irises, because she inspired him. The heather, the final bouquet, him giving her space, allowing her peace.   
  


* * *

  
By Friday the flowers he brought her almost a week ago have wilted, the water turning a yellowy brown, but still she makes no move to throw them away. They sit on the kitchen bench, a shadow of what they were when he brought them to her, yet every morning they make her smile, and by Friday she thinks it _almost_ reaches her eyes.   
  


* * *

  
Kate wakes up to his words _. Would I be imposing if I came by?_   
  
_ Yes,  _ she types out, before adding, _but company would be nice._   
  
She spends Saturday morning tidying up, both the cabin and herself. When he arrives, late afternoon, laden with fruit, and cheeses, juice, and _oh thank god_ ice cream, she smiles just a little brighter. He deposits everything in her kitchen, throws a "I'll be right back" over his shoulder, and walks quickly down the path, away from her. She busies herself, ice cream in the freezer, all other items in the small fridge, and wonders what else he could have possibly brought. "A toothbrush," she murmurs into the empty room. At the very least. Then the door is thrown open, and he's back, overnight bag hanging off one shoulder, breathing heavily from the walk he might have actually jogged, holding out a bright, cheerful bunch of sunflowers, and smiling gently. "Because they make me smile," he tells her, handing her the bouquet, before dropping his bag beside the couch.   
  
The wilted flowers slide into the trash bag, the water is changed, the sunflowers take their place on the kitchen counter, and her smile reaches her eyes.   
  


* * *

  
He sits outside under the stars, at the top of the steps leading up to the porch, his eyes shifting as moths fly by, drawn to the porch light, navigating by a false moon that will only lead them off course.   
  
"Gates kicked me out," he reveals once she has settled next to him. "Shut down the investigation and escorted me out. Her precinct has no room for a dilettante writer playing cop," he recites bitterly.   
  
Kate turns, brow furrowed, anger flaring in her eyes. "What? She shut the case down? Why?"   
  
"Too long without a fresh lead." He turns to her, feeling hopeful. "But, just between you and me, Ryan got the file to me. There's a money trail I've started to follow. Gates may have shut the investigation down, but I haven't stopped. I won't."   
  
She sighs deeply, wraps her arms around her calves, and pulls her knees to her chest, mindful of her scars. "Don't burn out over this, Castle." She meets his eyes. "I know what it's like to lose yourself in a case," she reminds him gently. "It's okay to take a step back. Don't you have a book tour soon?"   
  
"The times they are a-changin', Beckett," he says, voice laced with mirth and hints of regret. "It's a virtual book tour this year, from the comfort of my own bedroom. Guest blogs, and interviews, that kind of thing."   
  
She nods at his words. "How do you feel about that?"   
  
He feels thankful he won't be on the opposite coast; he can't be that far away from her right now. "I'm evolving," he replies simply.   
  
"You'll wear clothes during this, right?"   
  
Her lips tug up in a smile that makes him wonder if she's picturing him naked right now.   
He tilts his head, purses his lips, as he considers her words. "No promises."   
  
Kate pulls back, no longer resting her chest to her knees, and gazes up at the clear night sky.   
  
Castle pushes off the step and moves a few paces down the path. He tilts his head back and scans the sky above.   
  
"Looking for UFOs?" Kate asks.   
  
Castle chuckles, his eyes still locked above. "ISS should be passing over soon."   
  
He turns back to face her. She is gazing up once more, her eyes scanning the constellations for movement. With her eyes skyward, she doesn't notice his eyes on her, dipping to her chest, looking for the scar he knows she has been hiding. He's curious, he can't help it. And then he wishes he had a little more self control. Pink, puckered, angry. It's still so new, still healing, and seeing it hits him harder than he had expected.   
  
He gives himself away; his soft intake of breath causes her to glance down and see where his eyes are locked. She clutches at her top, pulling it back up, glaring at him as she does so. He meets her narrowed eyes, his own guilty and apologetic, wishing he was a better person, resolving to work on that.   
  
His mouth opens, closes, opens again to form an apology, but she's one step ahead of him - as always. "It's okay, Castle," she tells him on a sigh of exhaled breath. "I still flinch at the sight of it sometimes too."   
  
"Does it hurt?" he asks, easing himself back down to sit on the step beside her. He feels like a child, asking questions with obvious answers. Wishing his mouth would just stop. Stop opening and forming sentences, and making her uncomfortable.   
  
She studies him silently for a moment. "Yes," she admits, her tone subdued. "I have a lot of work still ahead of me, a lot of healing and therapy."   
  
He nods, silent as he digests this information. "You favor one side a little. Is that-"   
  
"Incision along my side," she replies softly, answering before he can even finish his question. "More scar tissue that's still healing."  
Her breath hitches, and he hears the waver, can see her physically struggling, before she forces it out. "I didn't want anyone to see me like this."   
  
But it repeats in his head as _, I didn't want you to see me like this._   
  
He watches her; his gaze is serious, he knows. He's too full of his own pain, but then he softens his emotions, pushes down the ache, and graces her with a smile. "You're amazing," he breathes.   
  
She holds his gaze for a moment, before the intensity becomes too much and she breaks it, looks down.   
  
He gazes off in the opposite direction, his heart beating just a little harder in his chest, and listens as the lake waters lap gently in the distance. "How's the lake monster?" He's a pro at changing topics when necessary. He turns back to her. "Does it have a name? Like Kipsy, or Champ... Or Big Blue?"   
  
She meets his eyes once more. "Perhaps in oral tradition but," she shrugs, "not that I know of. I think once something is explained by science the names lose their significance."   
  
"But the stories remain," he muses aloud. He sees her shiver slightly, wrap her arms around herself a little tighter. "Let's go inside," he suggests. "It's getting cold out here."   
  
She appears reluctant to move, but slowly nods. He holds out a hand but she ignores it as she pushes herself to her feet.   
  
"I'm not an invalid, Castle," she mutters.   
  
"I was being polite," he replies.   
  
"No, you saw my scar and now you're back in that damn hospital wondering if I'm going to pull through. I pulled through. I'm getting stronger every day, okay?"   
  
He's silent as he digests her words, unable to deny it. He still dreams about it; at the end of days spent lost in her case, when the frustrations pile up around him and enclose him in a dark, haunted space, the nightmares follow. He can't erase the images that flash through his dreams, her blood-soaked uniform, Kate Beckett fading away while he holds her, pleads with her to stay. He said things she can't remember, he saw things he wishes he could forget.   
  
"Come on." She nudges him gently with her elbow. "Someone brought over ice cream today, and it sounds pretty good to me right now."   
  
He follows her inside, accepting an evening spent at her side, but all he wants to do is wrap her in his arms, hold her wounded body to his, and never, ever, let her go.   
  


* * *

  
He wakes early, his body twisted, his spine contorted, on the small, lumpy couch, unsure at first what has roused him. He sits up, stretching his back out, cracking his neck. Sunlight streams in through the open blinds, neither having bothered to close them after the ice cream, after she had taken herself off to bed, leaving him alone in the quiet room. But now, something must have jolted him awake. But what? Standing, he moves over to the window, scans the surrounding area for a clue.   
  
The noise of a weapon being discharged echoes through the trees, the sound slamming into him, shock waves battering him. Wave after wave after wave. "That's closer than five hundred yards," he mutters, catching sight of two hunters passing by through the foliage. And then he realizes, if he heard it, so did Kate.   
  
"Beckett?" He calls, announcing himself before reaching her closed bedroom door. He knocks. "Beckett, you awake?"   
  
He keeps himself from knocking too loud, instead using his voice to get her attention. "Kate? I'm coming in so you better not be naked and I'm sorry if you're still asleep." He won't be sorry if she's naked, and prays she hasn't brought a gun out here. He wonders if Jim keeps one in the cabin for his own hunting purposes.   
He swallows down his concerns, calms himself. "Kate?" He asks again, turning the door handle and pushing the door open slowly. "You awake?"   
  
Her bed is empty, covers thrown back, pillows askew. He turns to leave, wondering if she went for a walk, praying to God she isn't outside, when he sees her still form, huddled in the corner between the side of an antique armoire and the wall. Her eyes are unfocused, darting around the room, and he can tell that she isn't seeing him. "Kate?" He says her name softly, his voice calm. "Kate, you're safe."   
He crouches down, lowering himself to a less threatening height, and inches closer. Her body is shaking, fear clouds her eyes and she clutches a hand to her chest, which heaves with each ragged breath.   
Reaching out cautiously, he touches a hand to her knee. "Kate?"   
  
He sees the change then. It isn't a sudden snap back into awareness, but her eyes shift, focus; she exhales a soft sob, and dips her head, embarrassed.   
Settling down in front of her, Castle squeezes her knee, an attempt to get her to lift her head. "It was hunters, tracking deer I guess. It wasn't..." He trails off, unsure if he should be saying that word. _Sniper._   
  
Kate looks up, her cheeks stained with tears, but she meets his eyes. "Okay," she replies quietly. Swatting his hand away from her knee, she slowly stands in the cramped space in the corner, but he sees the shake in her muscles as they struggle to keep her on her feet. He doesn't reach out to steady her, but gets to his own feet and stands, prepared to reach for her if she collapses.   
  
"What was that, Kate?"   
  
Her shirt sticks to her front, sweat staining the blue a darker hue. "Nothing," she tells him, her tone firmer now that she has her breath back.   
  
"That wasn't nothing," he tells her firmly. "You reacted to that gunshot." He tilts his head, watches her with concern. "How often does this happen?"   
  
Pushing past him, she tugs at her shirt, pulling it away from her skin, and adjusts it to cover her scars. "Once before."   
  
"Why didn't you tell me?"   
  
"Because it's none of your business," she fires back. "I can handle it, Castle. It's nothing."   
  
"Stop saying that. Do you hear yourself? _Nothing_ isn't having an anxiety attack and hyperventilating in the corner."   
  
"You make it sound worse than it was."   
  
"No." He shakes his head, bewildered. "I can assure you I'm describing it exactly as it was."   
  
"Next you're going to tell me I have PTSD or something." She grabs her jeans from the armoire, a shirt he recognizes as one that buttons up to her neck, and walks out of the room.   
  
"I'm not qualified to diagnose such things," he says, following her. "But that just now? That wasn't nothing. You need to talk to someone, Kate."   
  
"I'm already booked in for such things when I get back to the city."   
  
"And when's that?" He asks, moments before she closes the bathroom door between them. He sighs, frustrated. "Come back with me today," he tells her through the door. "Come back to the city." He listens for any indication she has heard him, says her name again, but then the sound of the shower drowns him out, and he can only shake his head. Sliding to the floor, he sits outside the bathroom and waits.   
  
This isn't over.


	4. Chapter 4

Castle sits quietly on the cabin's hard floor, his head resting back against the bathroom door, listening for the silence that will come when the water has been turned off. But the steady stream of water continues, and despite his concern he can't censor the images of a naked Beckett under the hot water, washing the sticky, persistent grime of embarrassment away.   
He scrapes a shameful hand up his face, banishing the images from his inappropriate, traitorous brain. With one quick glance back at the door, he stands and heads for the coffee table. He picks up her copy of _Heat Rises_ , and then returns with it to the floor outside the bathroom.   
  
"The thing about New York City is you never know what's behind a door," he reads aloud. His back is to the wall now, having shuffled his body across slightly, and his head is turned towards the closed door beside him as he reads. His voice carries, perhaps not over the relentless sound of the shower, but through the door for sure.   
  
He reads even when the water stops, pausing only for a second when he hears the sound of the seals unsticking as she pushes open the shower door. Picking up mid-sentence, he reads just a little louder while he hears the rustling of clothing, the squeak as she runs her hand over the mirror to clear the steam. He doesn't stop; he reads over the sound of the faucet, reads as her toothbrush clinks against the ceramic holder, reads as she throws open the door, dressed, hair loose but damp, shakes her head at him, and walks straight past.   
  
"What are you doing, Castle?" she asks, pulling the juice out of the fridge and pouring herself a glass.   
  
It's only then that he stops. "Reading," he replies unnecessarily.   
  
"Yes, but _why_?" Her eyes are cold, her posture tense, and she makes it clear in her expression she's in no mood for games.   
  
And if that's the case he's happy to stun her with brutal honesty. "Because the start of this book takes me back to a time before I watched you die, before we lost Montgomery, before everything changed. It's familiar, safe."   
  
Kate puts her juice down with an unsteady hand, and remains silent for a moment. He doesn't speak further.   
  
"And the end?" she finally asks, her voice rough, low, tinged with sadness.   
  
"Was necessary," he replies calmly.   
  
She nods slowly. "I agree," she says after a beat of silence.   
  
He pushes up, getting to his feet, bones creaking, back aching, his body too old for couches and floors. "About before-"   
  
"Look," she interjects. "We'll talk about it, okay? Just not right now."   
  
He raises a skeptical eyebrow, and swallows down the mirthless bark of laughter at her words. Since when do they talk about anything?   
  
She frowns at his reaction, clearly unhappy with the disbelief in his eyes. "I promise."   
  
Kate Beckett doesn't make promises lightly. He believes her. "I'd still like you to come back with me," he tells her gently. "Back to the City. Back to my..." He trails off, swallowing that thought before it leaves his mouth.   
  
"Back to what, Castle? My apartment or your guest-room? Because the way you cut yourself off there..."   
  
"You know it's there whenever you need it." His knee cracks when he takes a step, and it ends up more of a limp, his toes just a little too tingly for his own comfort.   
  
She watches him but says nothing about his gait as he makes his way to her. "My place is fine," she reminds him.   
  
He stops opposite her, the counter between them, leaning against it as he gives his leg a quick shake, the feeling returning slowly. "So you're coming back?"   
  
"I think, to continue healing, yes, I will head back to the city."   
  
"Today?" he asks, hope rising within him. He shifts his weight while he waits for her to respond.   
  
She shakes her head. "It's Sunday, Castle. It's a day to relax. The city will still be there tomorrow, it'll even be there on Tuesday."   
  
"I'll drive you back tomorrow then."   
  
She frowns. "Who said anything about you staying another night?"   
  
"You did, just then. 'It's Sunday, Castle. It's a day to relax'," he recites, his voice high in a mock imitation of hers. "So I guess I'm stuck here tonight." He grins.   
  
"Mmhmmm," she replies, bringing the glass of juice to her lips.   
  
"You wanna head to the lake after breakfast?"   
  
Her eyes shift nervously to the door, and she shakes her head. "I think I'll stay inside today."   
  
_ Oh. Stupid. He's so stupid. _ "Yeah, weather doesn't look that great anyway." The sky is blue, the sun is shining, and it's in the low 70s already.   
  
Kate smiles sadly at his words, and nods. "Yeah."   
  


* * *

  
Breakfast sitting comfortably in her stomach, Kate curls her legs up under her on the couch and tips her head back, closing her eyes. She feels exhausted; it's barely 10AM but the restless night and the incident in her bedroom earlier have left her feeling like she didn't sleep at all. Castle settles back down beside her, having insisted the dishes were his responsibility, and she feels his eyes on her instantly.   
  
"You're staring," she tells him, eyes still closed, head still back.   
  
"I wasn't."   
  
"Mmmhmmm."   
  
"No TV?"   
  
"Nope."   
  
"X-Box?"   
  
"What part of no TV don't you understand?"   
  
"Books other than mine?"   
  
She drops her chin, opens her eyes, and scowls at him. "Of course."   
  
"Games?"   
  
"No." At his surprised expression she adds, "Dad usually comes here alone. Spends most of his time fishing."   
  
Castle's eyes light up at that. "Fishing?"   
  
She gestures to the small cupboard behind the door. "You're welcome to take a rod out."   
  
"Yeah, maybe later," he replies.   
  
"You don't have to sit here all day watching over me like I'm gonna break, Castle."   
  
"I wasn't?"   
  
"Yeah." Dropping her head back, she closes her eyes once more. "Books are in the bedroom if you want them."   
  
He's quiet beside her, and when it threatens to go on for too long she almost opens her eyes to see if he's still there when he finally speaks again. "You should go back to bed. If you're tired, I mean. I can entertain myself."   
  
She almost smirks at his words, but she's too tired to fire a comeback at him. Instead, she pushes herself to her feet, and nods. "Yeah, I think I will." She turns and heads for the bedroom.   
  
She's closing the door when his knuckles brush the wood. "Mind if I grab a book before you crash?"   
  
"Oh, yeah, of course." She opens a drawer in her nightstand and passes him three paperback from it. "Not much selection. I slept a lot at first," she tells him quietly.   
  
"It's fine," he replies, accepting them. "Thank you."   
  
His smile leaves her feeling just a little fuzzier inside, a little warmer. She feels strange, stripping out of her clothes and crawling back into bed after showering, but if she could just keep her eyes open...   
  


* * *

  
It's 3PM by the time she wakes from her nap, and Sunday feels lost. Her bedroom door is ajar, and she knows why. She can't fault him for it. Holding the covers to her chest with one hand, she reaches down, until her fingers close around her shirt. She feels ridiculous, slipping her shirt on under the sheets when he can't possibly see through that small gap in the door. Shirt buttoned to the top, she sits on the side of the bed, sliding her jeans up her legs. She snaps the dome together as she pushes to her feet, runs a hand through her tangled hair, readjusts her top, and moves to the door. She tugs at the handle, pulls it wide open, and then folds her arms across her chest. "Tell me you haven't been on the couch this whole time."   
  
He turns to her, a guilty expression on his face. "I haven't been on the couch this whole time."   
  
"Liar."   
  
"I got up twice out of necessity."   
  
"So you've just sat there and... Done what? Read?"   
  
"It was Sunday, always an equivocal day in the East, and an excuse for slacking," he recites in response. The guilt gone, his expression is now neutral, his tone even.   
  
She raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"   
  
He holds up the book he's clearly been making his way through all day. " _A Passage to India_ ," he tells her. "Forster."   
  
"Haven't read it," she replies dismissively.   
  
"No?"   
  
Kate shakes her head. "It was on the pile I've been making my way through."   
  
He glances down at the novels before him. "As well as _Dracula_ and _Moby Dick?_ That's quite a pile."   
  
"Thought you were gonna go hunt the monster, Ahab," she says.   
  
He shrugs. "Maybe later. I hear it's nocturnal." He beckons her over, and her legs move without her permission, taking her to him. "Feeling better?" He asks.   
  
"Yes, apart from the fact I'm starving." She regains control, turns on her heel before reaching him, and makes her way into the kitchen. She hears him behind her, following, but when she stops and turns he's closer than she anticipates.   
"Did you eat lunch?" She asks, stumbling slightly over the first two words as he stands there watching her.   
  
He doesn't reply, instead he bridges the space between them with one step and envelops her in a hug.   
  
It's unexpected, and her arms hang limply at her sides for a moment while she registers she's in his arms. His body's warm and his arms hold her securely, and she can't resist when her own arms lift and snake around his waist. She rests her cheek against his shoulder, her head turned from him. "I'm okay, Castle," she says gently.   
  
"No, you're not," he replies, his voice hoarse. "But this is more for my benefit."   
  
His fingertips glide up and down her back, and she relaxes into him. "I'm sorry you saw that earlier."   
  
His head turns, and his lips move against her hair. "What did I see exactly?"   
  
"I think we both know," she replies quietly.   
  
"Have you told anyone?"   
  
"No."   
  
"Would you have if I hadn't been here?"   
  
"No." Kate heaves a sigh against his shirt, and pulls back. She looks up at him, his arms still draped loosely around her waist. "Can the lake wait until tomorrow?"   
  
"One last visit?" he asks, smiling gently.   
  
"There's a lake monster I need to say goodbye to." Her smile fades, and her eyes darken. "And if I don't step outside soon I'm afraid I never will again."   
  
His hands glide up and down her forearms, and he nods. "But not today?"   
  
"No, not today."   
  


* * *

  
She lets him read aloud, and it's the strangest thing at first, to sit next to him on the couch, while his written words leave his lips, and surround her. The strangeness is fleeting, and by the end of the chapter she's lost in a different world. One where every evening is spent like this. Where they curl up, where he reads to her, writes beside her, bounces plot ideas back and forth - but _oh_ she's getting ahead of herself.   
When his voice begins to carry the strain of talking, she takes over, reading his own words to him. She had begun strong, but as she reads she remembers where the chapter is going and falters.   
  
"Problem, Beckett?"   
  
She ignores the amusement she sees dancing in his eyes, and flips through a few pages. "Yeah, I'm not reading that out loud," she mutters.   
  
"It's just kissing," he tells her, drawing out the word.   
  
She refuses to react, simply picking up where the next paragraph starts. "Nikki slept afterwards-"   
  
"After what?" he asks, not letting it go.   
  
"It's your story, Castle. You should know," she replies dryly.   
  
Her eyes skim ahead, and she sighs. "Yeah, not reading that either."   
  
He leans into her, crowding into her space, until he can read the words himself. "Why?" he asks slyly. "You got a problem with Rook's magnificent ass?" There's a beat of silence before he adds, "Oh and yes, sex helps my writing."   
  
The heat rises - in her face, flooding her cheeks with color. She licks the tip of a finger, and flicks quickly through several pages, nudging him away from her with an elbow to his ribs. "Chapter five," she begins, ignoring his eyes and the soft chuckles leaving his lips.   
  


* * *

  
Kate leaves him on the couch just after nine, and steps to the door. She doesn't hesitate, just wraps her hand around the handle, and pulls it open. A light breeze catches her hair as she stands at the door, and she listens. It's quiet; insects chirp, wings beats, animals rustle around in the undergrowth, and soon bats will move through the air - but no bullets disturb the stillness, no hunters pass by. She can do this, she can sit on the porch. She _needs_ to do this.   
She was so lost out here. The solitude of the cabin had helped at first, but not now. Now it's hindering her recovery.   
  
The sun has long since disappeared behind the trees, the air cooling, the trees blending in with the sky as they lose the light.   
With determined strides she moves to the steps, and sits slowly. He is already at her side, easing down beside her, and she dips her head back, and gazes up at the night sky through the canopy of trees. Polaris shines bright above her, shines beside her too. Castle, her own personal North Star, helping her find herself again.   
  
He is silent, following her eyes to the twinkling heavens above, and she appreciates his ability to remain quiet when she needs him to be. She loves this about him.   
  
_ Love _ .   
  
She has felt it, for a while now. Perhaps longer than she cares to admit. This tugging at her heart, this fluttering in her chest, this warmth that spreads through her whenever she sees his face, hears his voice, thinks of him. She has felt it since before he ever spoke the words out loud to her. At first it was a love so misdirected she thought she cared for another man - when all she really wanted was Castle.   
  
Three words have haunted her for so long, far longer than any words should. They're good words. Positive words. Words she should have spoken. But still she had kept them in, hidden them from him. These elusive, frustrating, beautiful words.   
She sneaks a quick glance at his profile, his eyes watching the various insects as they weave drunkenly around them, ensorcelled by the porch light behind them. Insects so different from one another, yet they dance together, wings flapping to a music only they can hear, caught up in a courtship that side-swiped them, lured them in. Until they can no longer resist the pull, can't stop from gravitating to each other.   
  
Her eyes return to the stars above, and she murmurs three words. They catch the wind, breeze past him, until the echo repeats as it moves through the trees, the leaves reciting the susurrus of her lie.   
"I remember everything."


	5. Chapter 5

There's a brief beat of silence, a moment he allows himself, where he just sits and absorbs her words.   
When he turns to her, he finds her own eyes cast down and avoiding his, fascinated by the coarse denim of her jeans, her hands rubbing up and down her thighs. "I suspected," he tells her in a low, calm voice.   
  
She inhales sharply, and her hands still. She looks up, and meets his eyes. "How?"   
  
"I don't think I need to remind you of what happened this morning," he tells her gently. "But before that, I suspected." He tilts his head, studies her body language as he asks, "And when you say _everything_ , what exactly-"   
  
" _Everything_ ," she repeats firmly. "Everything I didn't want to talk about earlier." She inhales a breath, holds it, her throat rippling as she swallows. "Your words," she admits on a rush of exhaled air. Her fingernails dig into her thighs so sharply he wonders if she's drawing blood through the denim.   
  
"How long have you remembered?"   
  


* * *

  
Her thighs burn; she scrapes her nails up the denim and then folds her arms across her chest, but the pressure only makes her wince. The pull of her scar is more intense tonight. She relaxes her grip on her elbows, and leans forward a little. The pain distracts her from his questioning eyes, but she owes him an answer. "Since the moment the haze from surgery cleared and I was lucid again," she replies, her voice low.  
  
"Why did you lie?" he asks, his calm voice belying the hurt she knows he's feeling.  
  
"There were certain things I wasn't ready to face," she tells him plainly. "I'm not even saying I'm ready now but..." She lets out a rueful sigh. "It wasn't fair to lie to you, and I'm sorry," she finishes softly.  
  
He nods. "Okay."  
  
"Okay?" she asks, a lilt of surprise in her voice. "That's it?"  
  
"For now," he tells her. He scrubs a hand up his face, and rakes it through his hair. "I'm tired. We'll talk in the morning." He stands, and moves back into the cabin, leaving her alone on the step.  
  
She won't allow him to pull one of her moves, and with a pained push she gets to her feet, closes the cabin door behind her as she enters, and corners him in the small kitchen while he pours himself a glass of water.  
"You think you can't yell at me?" she asks, anger rising within her. "You think I'm fragile? Poor Kate Beckett, shot in the chest, died twice, can barely walk the path without wincing in pain." She takes another step, and he leans back against the counter, trying to keep it casual but clearly retreating. "Don't censor yourself now, Castle. Let me have it. God knows I deserve it."  
  
He places his hands on her forearms, and gently eases her back a step, before he releases her arms and steps around her. "Tomorrow, not now, Kate," he tells her, collecting his glass of water from the counter, and carrying it to the couch. The slight shake in his hand doesn't go unnoticed.  
  
"Castle," she says. "Don't-"  
  
"Goodnight, Kate."  
  
She huffs out a frustrated breath, retreats, and when she closes her bedroom door it shuts with a little more force than she had intended.  
  
He needs time. Time to process it all now it's confirmed. Time to formulate the questions he needs answered. Just... Time. She knows she needs to allow him this. She knows all about needing time.  
Her phone sits on her nightstand, but she refuses to look at it. Morning will come in its own time, and, God, she's so tired of thinking about _time_. She holds her hands against her ears, trying to muffle the insects outside, beating their wings against the window, demanding her attention, chirping and buzzing their songs that once calmed her, while now all she hears is _I told you so_ and _you deserve this_.  
 _You should have told him sooner._  
 _You don't deserve him._  
She falls asleep hours later, cursing the insects, and cursing herself. Still cursing time.  
  


* * *

  
At two AM he's had enough.   
He doesn't knock, just opens her bedroom door and steps up to her bed. She had fallen asleep with a soft bedside lamp still burning, the light illuminating her face, and his heart aches that her features are contorted in pain even as she sleeps. He stands before her, but it all feels too intimidating, and so he sits carefully on the edge of the bed instead. She stirs from the dipping of the mattress, and he waits as her eyes flutter open.   
  
"Beckett," he says gently, his hand falling to her exposed arm to rouse her quicker. "Kate?"   
  
She blinks, sits up slowly, her brain still waking up. Her bleary eyes find his, and she frowns. "What are you doing in here?"   
  
His eyes fall to her chest as her shirt slips down, and he forgets everything he had intended to ask. He can see it all now, and the discoloration on her skin seems harsher under the light; the damaged skin contrasts her smooth chest, the gentle slope of her breasts, and lit by the bedside lamp none of it is concealed from him. And the emotions he had managed to squash down during his first viewing refuse to be repressed now. "Oh," he breathes out. "Kate."   
  


* * *

  
His voice brings her to complete consciousness, and she glances down, to find her scar completely exposed to him. She's given him an eyeful of pink, angry skin, and has almost flashed him completely in the process. Her instinct is to yank her top so high up her chest it hangs unnaturally low down her back. But she clenches her fists, keeps them in her lap, and lets him look.   
  
She watches as his own fingers clench, relax, clench again. She sees the moment he wants to reach out, and touch her. It isn't sexual, there's no arousal surging through him, it's a simple need to feel her warm skin, her beating heart, and know she's okay. His eyes shine with the tears he's barely holding back, and it breaks her heart.   
  
"I'm sorry you ever saw it," she says softly. "I tried to hide it."   
  
His mouth opens, and closes again, before he manages to push out any words. "No, don't," he says firmly. "I'm sorry I came in... I should have knocked, Kate. _I'm_ sorry."   
  
"Why did you come in?" she asks, adjusting the sheet at her waist but not raising her hands higher to lift her shirt's neckline.   
  
"I'm ready to talk."   
  
"At.." She reaches for her phone, and illuminates the screen, and she's positive she flashed him this time but he doesn't say a word. "At two in the morning?" she asks   
  
"Yeah." There's a hint of humor in his tone as he realizes how it must seem.   
  
His fingers are balled up into fists, and her chest aches. Slowly, gently, she reaches for his hand. Her fingers glide over his until he relaxes. She takes his open hand in hers and guides it to where his eyes keep drifting to. She brings his palm to her chest until his fingers make contact with her skin. She presses his hand to cover her scar, the heel of his palm pressed firmly between her breasts, to the now healed reminder of that day, the tips of his fingers brushing her throat.   
  
He is silent through it all; she holds his hand to her chest and brings her other hand to his face, cupping his jaw, her thumb caressing his cheek.   
  
"It's okay, Castle," she soothes. "I'm alive."   
  


* * *

  
Her heart pounds strong and steady beneath his hand. She holds him to her, refusing to allow him to pull back.   
  
"It's ugly," she admits, her hand on his face tilting his chin up until he meets her eyes. "But I can live with a couple of scars."   
  
He won't cry, he's determined not to, but it's a struggle to keep the tears at bay. "It's beautiful," he corrects her.   
  
"I know I lied to you, but please don't lie to me now," she forces out, her voice raw.   
  
"I'm not." His hand covers hers, his own fingertips touching his cheek on either side of her thumb; he laces their fingers together, and brings her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss to her palm.   
  
"I'm broken." Her words come out _broken_ , shakily exhaled on a shuddering breath.   
  
"You're not," he tells her, his lips moving softly against her palm while he speaks. His other hand is still pressed to her chest, but his eyes hold hers. He sees her face tense in pain, and he pulls his hand from her skin, clasps both her hands between his and holds them to his own chest. "It hurts?"   
  
"It.." She stops herself. "Sometimes."   
  
"Now?"   
  
"No," she tells him gently. "Not now." She graces him with a small smile. "I'm just tired, and my stomach's a little bit uneasy."   
  
He eases her hands back to her lap and releases them. "I should let you sleep."   
  
"No," she says abruptly. Reaching for him, she drops a hand to his knee to keep him in place. "Wait. You came to talk?"   
He nods, and s he squeezes his knee, urging him on. "Then, please, talk to me, _Rick_."   
  
He hesitates, just for a moment, before boldly stating, "I love you, Kate."   
  
"I know," she replies solemnly.   
  
"You've known for almost two months," he confirms, his tone even.   
  


* * *

  
She gives him a rueful smile. "Maybe longer," she replies softly, sadness in her tone for having kept it from him for so long.   
  
"You never said-" He stops himself, and lets out a long, resigned breath. "Well, you never say anything."   
  
"No," she admits.   
  
"Because you don't feel the same," he concludes.   
  
Kate shakes her head. "Castle, I-" She sucks as much air into her lungs as she can, and with all her strength and courage, she says, "After my mother was killed something inside me changed." She holds his gaze while she speaks. "It's like I built up this wall inside. I don't know I guess I just didn't want to hurt like that again. I know I'm not going to be able to be the kind of person that I want to be. I know I'm not going to be able to have the kind of relationship that I want until that wall comes down."   
He's already chipped away at that wall, he's already breaking it down. She wishes she could tell him that too, she prays he knows.   
"It's not going to happen until I put this thing to rest," she finishes quietly.   
  
"Then I suppose we're just going to have to find these guys and take them down." He gives her a smile that almost reaches his eyes, and she wonders if it all feels as hopeless to him as it does to her. "But here's the thing, Kate, I think you can have both. I think you can have that relationship while you're in the middle of solving this case."   
  
"How can you be so sure?" she asks.   
  
He reaches for her hand, and brushes a kiss to her knuckles. "Because I'm still here," he tells her, his voice warm, his eyes soft.   
  
He moves off the bed, turns from her, and her heart aches. "But you're walking away," she tells his retreating form, a strain in her voice.   
  
He stops, and turns back to her, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Only because if I joined you right now you'd shoot me."   
  
She misses his smile. She needs to see it again. "I don't have my gun," she tells him.   
  
"No?" He remains by the door, but there's a spark, a flare, of forgiveness in his eyes.   
  
She shakes her head, and a warm flutter of hope swirls in her chest. "You give good hugs, Castle, and I could really use one right now."   
  
He doesn't move for a moment, just watches her. But then he gives her a small nod, and moves back to her bed. She shuffles over and makes space for him to crawl into the bed beside her. When he looks like he's just going to sit on top of the thin blanket, she pulls it back, and offers him more. He slips in next to her, and arranges himself until he's lying on his back. He extends an arm, and gestures for her to bring her body to his. Her head falls to his t-shirt-clad chest, her arm drapes itself over his waist, and he draws lazy circles on her forearm.   
  
"I care about you too much to hurt you, but I might anyway," she says against his chest. "I already have."   
  
"And I might hurt you," he reminds her. "I would never, not intentionally, but you know me, Kate. I could screw this up royally." He drops a kiss to her forehead and smiles against her warm skin. "But if we never try..."   
  
She's silent, her head on his chest, her arm slung over him, her skin memorizing the feel of his lips upon her, her brain absorbing his words. "I have a lot of healing still to do," she murmurs. "I have- so much healing."   
  
"I know," he murmurs back.   
  
"I don't know how much of myself I can give you over the next few weeks."   
  
"I'll take whatever you can give."   
  
"Okay," she replies, her voice fading.   
  
"Okay?"   
  
She hums against him, and settles.   
  


* * *

  
He strokes her arm, feels her body relax, hears her breathing even out, and he smiles. He's pretty sure she just agreed to giving them a chance. And with her body pressed to his he's pretty sure he won't be sleeping tonight. He doesn't want to miss a second of this. He's still hurting, that will linger, but he loves her. She's worth it.   
  


* * *

  
He falls asleep on the couch while she packs her small suitcase the next morning. "Just a quick nap" before they hit the road because he refuses to let her drive. Because it's his car, of course. Not because she's still not up to strength yet. She breezes past the couch, collecting her books, and stops to take him in: hair flopping in front of his eyes, mouth open, snoring gently while a hint of drool shines at the corner of his mouth. Oh yes, she will tease him about that later.  
He claimed to have slept like a log, but she suspects different. She had met his tired eyes when she was woken up, and she's fairly sure he didn't sleep at all.  
So she leaves him to doze on the couch; there are still a few hours to spare before they need to hit the road anyway.  
She moves around the small cabin, packing what few belongings she has here, passing by his sleeping form every opportunity she has.  
  
She wakes him an hour before they need to leave, one hand on his upper arm as she murmurs his name, the other offering him a cup of coffee. He smiles as he rouses, accepting the coffee as he sits up, adorably groggy.  
  
He showers, pops a handful of grapes into his mouth, munching as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and picks up her suitcase before she can reach down for it herself. He offers his other arm to her, and she slips her hand around his elbow, happy to accept the help.  
  
It was over a month ago that she had struggled to walk the path to her father's cabin. Now, it's easier. Each step she takes along this uneven, twisted path is calmer, sharp turns have become smooth curves; she barely feels the rough stones beneath her feet, and steps easily over the protruding tree roots. She ducks beneath the overhanging branches, and lets her skin absorb the warm sun. And every time she meets his eyes he smiles brightly at her.  
The struggle isn't over; she has PT, sessions with a therapist, and a psych eval to pass. She has a long way to go before she'll be allowed back on the job, before she can dive back into her mom's case, and finally put it to rest once and for all.  
  
But she doesn't have to do it alone.  
  
End.


End file.
